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PLAYS FOR AN IRISH THEATRE 
VOLUME II 



THE HOUR-GLASS AND 
OTHER PLAYS 



JT)^^ 



THE HOUR-GLASS 

AND OTHER PLAYS 

BEING VOLUME TWO OF PLAYS FOR 
AN IRISH THEATRE 

BY 

W. B. YEATS 



WetD gork 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1904 

All rights reserved 



CONGRESS: 


Two Copies Received 


Jr.:;. 13 1904 


n Copyr-.ghi Entr> 

dUss ^ XX* N», 


COPY A. 






/il/ 



Copyright, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up, electrotyped, and published December, 1903. 



J. 8. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

I. The Hour-Glass 1 

II. Cathleen Ni Hoolihan ... 47 
III. A Pot of Broth 81 



"The Hour-Glass," first performance, Dublin, March, 
1903. "Cathleen Ni Hoolihan," first performance, Dublin, 
October, 1902. " A Pot of Broth," first performance, Dub- 
lin, October, 1902. These plays were performed by The 
Irish National Theatre Society, which has repeated them in 
London, Dublin, and other places. 



vii 



THE HOUE-GLASS 



Dramatis Persons 

A Wise Man Some Pupils 

A Fool An Angel 

The Wise Man's Wife and Two Children 



THE HOUR-GLASS 

A MORALITY 

Scene : A large room with a door at the 
hack and a/nother at the side opening 
to an inner room. A desk and a 
chair m the middle. An hour-glass 
on a hracket near the door. A creepy 
stool near it. Some benches. The wise 
man sitting at his desk. 

Wise Man fuming over the pages of 

a look"^. Where is that passage I am 

to explain to my pupils to-day ? Here 
3 



4 THE HOUR-GLASS 

it is, and the book says that it was 
written by a beggar on the walls of 
Babylon : " There are two living coun- 
tries, the one visible and the one in- 
visible ; and when it is winter with us 
it is summer in that country ; and 
when the November winds are up 
among us it is lambing-time there." 
I wish that my pupils had asked me 
to explain any other passage, for this 
is a hard passage. [^The Fool comes in 
and stands at the door^ holding out his 
hat. He has a pair of shears in the 
other hand.^ It sounds to me like fool- 
ishness ; and yet that cannot be, for 
the writer of this book, where I have 
found so much knowledge, would not 



THE HOUR-GLASS 5 

have set it by itself on this page, and 
surrounded it with so many images 
and so many deep colours and so much 
fine gilding, if it had been foolishness. 

Fool. Give me a penny. 

Wise Man [turns to another page]. 
Here he has v^ritten : " The learned 
in old times forgot the visible coun- 
try." That I understand, but I have 
taught my learners better. 

Fool. Won't you give me a penny? 

Wise Man. What do you v^ant? 
The v^ords of the wise Saracen will 
not teach you much. 

Fool. Such a great wise teacher as 
you are will not refuse a penny to a 
Fool. 



6 THE HOUB-GLASS 

Wise Man. What do you know 
about wisdom ? 

Fool. Oh, I know ! I know what 
I have seen. 

Wise Man. What is it you have 
seen ? 

Fool. When I went by Kilcluan 
where the bells used to be ringing 
at the break of every day, I could 
hear nothing but the people snoring in 
their houses. When I went by Tub- 
bervanach where the young men used 
to be climbing the hill to the blessed 
well, they were sitting at the cross- 
roads playing cards. When I went 
by Carrigoras where the friars used 
to be fasting and serving the poor, I 



THE HOUR-GLASS 7 

saw them drinking wine and obeying 
their wives. And when I asked what 
misfortune had brought all these 
changes, they said it was no misfor- 
tune, but it was the wisdom they had 
learned from your teaching. 

Wise Man. Run round to the 
kitchen, and my wife will give you 
something to eat. 

Fool. That is foolish advice for a 
wise man to give. 

Wise Man. Why, Fool? 

Fool. What is eaten is gone. I 
want pennies for my bag. I must buy 
bacon in the shops, and nuts in the 
market, and strong drink for the time 
when the sun is weak. And I w^ant 



8 THE HOUR-GLASS 

snares to catch the rabbits and the 
squirrels and the hares, and a pot to 
cook them in. 

Wise Man. Go away. I have other 
things to think of now than giving 
you pennies. 

Fool. Give me a penny and I will 
bring you luck. Bresal the Fisherman 
lets me sleep among the nets in his 
loft in the winter-time because he says 
I bring him luck; and in the summer- 
time the wild creatures let me sleep 
near their nests and their holes. It 
is lucky even to look at me or to 
touch me, but it is much more lucky 
to give me a penny. ^Holds out his 
hcmd.'] If I wasn't lucky, I'd starve. 



THE HOUR-GLASS 9 

Wise Man. What have you got the 
shears for? 

Fool. I won't tell you. If I told 
you, you would drive them away. 

Wise Man. Whom would I drive 
away? 

Fool. I won't tell you. 

Wise Man. Not if I give you a 
penny ? 

Fool. No. 

Wise Man. Not if I give you two 
pennies ? 

Fool. You will be very lucky if you 
give me two pennies, but I won't tell 

you. 

Wise Man. Three pennies ? 
Fool. Four, and I will tell you! 



10 THE HOUR-GLASS 

Wise Man. Very well, four. But I will 
not call you Teigue the Fool any longer. 

Fool. Let me come close to you 
where nobody will hear me. But first 
you must promise you will not drive 
them away. [Wise Man nodsr^ Every 
day men go out dressed in black and 
spread great black nets over the hills, 
great black nets. 

Wise Man. Why do they do that? 

Fool. That they may catch the 
feet of the angels. But every morning, 
just before the dawn, I go out and 
cut the nets with my shears, and the 
angels fly away. 

Wise Man. Ah, now I know that 
you are Teigue the Fool. You have 



THE HOUR-GLASS 11 

told me that I am wise, and I have 
never seen an angel. 

Fool. I have seen plenty of angels. 

Wise Man. Do you bring luck to 
the angels too ? 

Fool. Oh, no, no ! No one could 
do that. But they are always there if 
one looks about one ; they are like the 
blades of grass. 

Wise Man. When do you see them ? 

Fool. When one gets quiet ; then 
something wakes up inside one, some- 
thing happy and c^uiet like the stars — 
not like the seven that move, but like 
the fixed stars. \^He points upwa^d.^ 

Wise Man. And what happens 
then ? 



12 THE HOUR-GLASS 

Fool. Then all in a minute one 
smells summer flowers, and tall people 
go by, happy and laughing, and their 
clothes are the colour of burning sods. 

Wise Man. Is it long since you 
have seen them, Teigue the Fool ? 

Fool. Not long, glory be to God ! 
I saw one coming behind me just 
now. It was not laughing, but it had 
clothes the colour of burning sods, and 
there was something shining about its 
head. 

Wise Man. Well, there are your 
four pennies. You, a fool, say " Glory 
be to God," but before I came the 
wise men said it. Run away now. I 
must ring the bell for my scholars. 



TBE HOUR-GLASS 13 

Fool. Four pennies ! That means a 
great deal of luck. Great teacher, I 
have brought you plenty of luck! [^He 
goes out shaking the hag.l 

Wise Man. Though they call him 
Teigue the Fool, he is not more foolish 
than everybody used to be, with their 
dreams and their preachings and their 
three worlds ; but I have overthrown 
their three worlds with the seven sci- 
ences. Y^He touches the hooks with his 
hands.'] With Philosophy that was 
made for the lonely star, I have 
taught them to forget Theology; with 
Architecture, I have hidden the ram- 
parts of their cloudy heaven ; with 
Music, the fierce planets' daughter 



14 THE HOUE-GLASS 

whose hair is always on fire, and with 
Grammar that is the moon's daughter, 
I have shut their ears to the imagi- 
nary harpings and speech of the angels ; 
and I have made formations of battle 
with Arithmetic that have put the 
hosts of heaven to the rout. But, 
Rhetoric and Dialectic, that have been 
born out of the light star and out of 
the amorous star, you have been my 
spearman and my catapult ! Oh ! my 
swift horsemen ! Oh ! my keen darting 
arguments, it is because of you that I 
have overthrown the hosts of foolish- 
ness ! ^An Angel, in a dress the colour 
of embers, and carrying a hlossoming 
ajpjple hough in his ha/ad and with a gilded 



THE HOUE-GLASS 15 

halo about his head, stands ti^pon the 
threshold.'^ Before I came, men's minds 
were stuffed with folly about a heaven 
where birds sang the hours, and about 
angels that came and stood upon men's 
thresholds. But I have locked the 
visions into heaven and turned the 
key upon them. Well, I must consider 
this passage about the two countries. 
My mother used to say something of 
the kind. She would say that when 
our bodies sleep our souls awake, and 
that whatever withers here ripens yon- 
der, and that harvests are snatched 
from us that they may feed invisible 
people. But the meaning of the book 
must be different, for only fools and 



16 THE HOUR-GLASS 

women have thoughts like that ; their 
thoughts were never written upon the 
walls of Babylon. [^He sees the Angel.] 
What are you ? Who are you ? I 
think I saw some that were like you 
in my dreams when I was a child — 
that bright thing, that dress that is 
the colour of embers ! But I have done 
with dreams, I have done with dreams. 

Angel. I am the Angel of the 
Most High God. 

Wise Man. Why have you come to 
me? 

Angel. I have brought you a mes- 
sage. 

Wise Man. What message have you 
got for me? 



THE HOUR-GLASS 17 

Angel. You will die within the hour. 
You will die when the last grains have 
fallen in this glass. [^ITe turns the hour- 
glass.'^ 

Wise Man. My time to die has not 
come. I have my pupils. I have a 
young wife and children that I cannot 
leave. Why must I die ? 

Angel. You must die because no 
souls have passed over the threshold of 
heaven since you came into this coun- 
try. The threshold is grassy, and the 
gates are rusty, and the angels that 
keep watch there are lonely. 

Wise Man. Where will death bring 
me to ? 

Angel. The doors of heaven will 



18 THE HOUR-GLASS 

not open to you, for you have denied the 
existence of heaven ; and the doors of 
purgatory will not open to you, for you 
have denied the existence of purgatory. 

Wise Man. But I have also denied 
the existence of hell ! 

Angel. Hell is the place of those 
who deny. 

Wise Man [kneels]. I have indeed 
denied everything and have taught 
others to deny. I have believed in 
nothing but what my senses told me. 
But, oh ! beautiful Angel, forgive me, 
forgive me ! 

Angel. You should have asked for- 
giveness long ago. 

Wise Man. Had I seen your face 



THE HOUR-GLASS 19 

as I see it now, oh! beautiful Angel, 
I would have believed, 1 would have 
asked forgiveness. Maybe you do not 
know how easy it is to doubt. Storm, 
death, the grass rotting, many sick- 
nesses, those are the messengers that 
came to me. Oh! why are you silent? 
You carry the pardon of the Most 
High; give it to me! I would kiss 
your hands if I were not afraid — no, 
no, the hem of your dress! 

Angel. You let go undying hands 
too long ago to take hold of them now. 
Wise Man. You cannot understand. 
You live in that country people only 
see in their dreams. You live in a 
country that we can only dream about. 



20 THE HOUR-GLASS 

Maybe it is as hard for you to under- 
stand why we disbelieve as it is for us 
to believe. Oh ! what have I said ! 
You know everything! Give me time 
to undo what I have done. Give me 
a year — a month — a day — an hour ! 
Give me to this hour's end, that I may 
undo what I have done! 

Angel. You cannot undo what you 
have done. Yet I have this power 
with my message. If you can find 
one that believes before the hour's end, 
you shall come to heaven after the 
years of purgatory. For, from one fiery 
seed, watched over by those that sent 
me, the harvest can come again to heap 
the golden threshing-floor. But now 



THE HOUR-GLASS 21 

farewell, for I am weary of the weight 
of time. 

Wise Man. Blessed be the Father, 
blessed be the Son, blessed be the 
Spirit, blessed be the Messenger They 
have sent ! 

Angel ^at the door and jpointing at the 
hour-glass\. In a little while the upper- 
most glass will be empty. \_Goes out.'j 

Wise Man. Everything will be well 
with me. I will call my pupils; they 
only say they doubt. [^Pulls the hell.'j 
They will be here in a moment. I 
hear their feet outside on the path. 
They want to please me ; they pretend 
that they disbelieve. Belief is too old 
to be overcome all in a minute. Be- 



22 THE HOUR-GLASS 

sides, I can prove what I once dis- 
proved. ^Another pull at the bell.'j They 
are coming now. I will go to my 
desk. I will speak quietly, as if noth- 
ing had happened. [^He stands at the 
desh with a fixed look in his eyes.! 
Enter Pupils and the Fool. 

Fool. Leave me alone. Leave me 
alone. Who is that pulling at my bag ? 
King's son, do not pull at my bag. 

A Young Man. Did your friends 
the angels give you that bag ? Why 
don't they fill your bag for you ? 

Fool. Give me pennies ! Give me 
some pennies ! 

A Young Man. Let go his cloak, it 
is coming to pieces. What do you 



THE HOUR-GLASS 23 

want pennies for, with that great bag 
at your waist ? 

Fool. I want to buy bacon in the 
shops, and nuts in the market, and 
strong drink for the time when the sun 
is weak, and snares to catch rabbits and 
the squirrels that steal the nuts, and 
hares, and a great pot to cook them in. 

A Young Man. Why don't your 
friends tell you where buried treasures 
are ? 

Another. Why don't they make 
you dream about treasures ? If one 
dreams three times, there is always 
treasure. 

Fool [/ioldi7ig out his haf^. Give me 
pennies ! Give me pennies ! 



24 THE nOUB-GLASS 

They throw pennies into his hat. He 
is standing close to the doo7\ that he may 
hold out his hat to each newcomer. 

A Young Man. Master, will you 
have Teigue the Fool for a scholar? 

Another Young Man. Teigue, will 
you give us your pennies if we teach 
you lessons ? No, he goes to school 
for nothing on the mountains. Tell us 
what you learn on the mountains, 
Teigue ? 

Wise Man. Be silent all. \^He has 
heen standing silent, looking away.l 
Stand still in your places, for there 
is something I would have you tell 
me. 

A momenfs pause. They all stand 



THE HOUR-GLASS 25 

round in their places. Teigue still stands 
at the door. 

Wise Man. Is there anyone 
amongst you who believes in God ? 
In heaven ? Or in purgatory ? Or in 
hell ? 

All the Young Men. No one, Mas- 
ter ! No one ! 

Wise Man. I knew^ you would all 
say that ; but do not be afraid. I 
will not be angry. Tell me the truth. 
Do you not believe ? 

A Young Man. We once did, but 
you have taught us to know better. 

Wise Man. Oh ! teaching, teaching 
does not go very deep ! The heart re- 
mains unchanged under it all. You 



26 THE HOUR-GLASS 

believe just as you always did, and 
you are afraid to tell me. 

A Young Man. No, no. Master. 

Wise Man. If you tell me that 
you believe I shall be glad and not 
angry. 

A Young Man \to his neighhourj. 
He wants somebody to dispute with. 

His Neighbour. I knew that from 
the beginning. 

A Young Man. That is not the 
subject for to-day ; you were going to 
talk about the words the beggar wrote 
upon the walls of Babylon. 

Wise Man. If there is one amongst 
you that believes, he will be my best 
friend. Surely there is one amongst 



THE HOUB-GLASS 27 

you. \_They are all silent.'j Surely 
what you learned at your mother's 
knees has not been so soon forgotten. 

A Young Man. Master, till you 
came, no teacher in this land was able 
to get rid of foolishness and ignorance. 
But every one has listened to you, 
every one has learned the truth. You 
have had your last disputation. 

Another. What a fool you made 
of that monk in the market-place ! 
He had not a word to say. 

Wise Man ^coines from his desk and 
stands among them in the middle of the 
room']. Pupils, dear friends, I have de- 
ceived you all this time. It was I 
myself who was ignorant. There is a 



28 THE HOUR-GLASS 

God. There is a heaven. There is 
fire that passes, and there is fire that 
lasts for ever. 

Teigue, throicgh all this^ is sitting on 
a stool hy the door^ reckoning on his fin- 
gers what he will hicy with his money. 

A Young Man \to another']. He will 
not be satisfied till we dispute w^ith 
him. \_To the Wise Man] Prove it, 
Master. Have you seen them ? 

Wise Man [m a low, solemn voice]. 
Just now, before you came in, some one 
came to the door, and when I looked 
up I saw an angel standing there. 

A Young Man. You were in a 
dream. Anybody can see an angel in 
his dreams. 



THE HOUR-GLASS 29 

Wise Man. Oh, my God ! It was 
not a dream. I was aw^ake, waking as 
I am now. I tell you I was awake 
as I am now. 

A Young Man. Some dream when 
they are awake, but they are the crazy, 
and who would believe what they say? 
Forgive me, Master, but that is what 
you taught me to say. That is what 
you said to the monk when he spoke 
of the visions of the saints and the 
martyrs. 

Another Young Man. You see how 
well we remember your teaching. 

Wise Man. Out, out from my 
sight ! I want some one with belief. 
I must find that grain the Angel spoke 



30 THE HOUR-GLASS 

of before I die. I tell you I must 
find it, and you answer me with argu- 
ments. Out w^ith 3^ou, or I wall beat you 
with my stick ! ^The young men laugh.'j 

A Young Man. How well he plays 
at faith ! He is like the monk when 
he had nothing more to say. 

Wise Man. Out, out, or I will lay 
this stick about your shoulders ! Out 
with you, though you are a King's 
son ! [They hegin to hiorry oict.l 

A Young Man. Come, come ; he 
wants us to find some one who will 
dispute with him. ^All go out.^ 

Wise Man. [Alone. He goes to the 
door at the side.~\ I wnll call my wife. 
She will believe ; women always be- 



THE HOUR-GLASS 31 

lieve. \JIe o])ens the door and calls. '^ 
Bridget ! Bridget ! [Bridget comes in 
wearing her apron^ her sleeves turned iij) 
from her floury arms.'^ Bridget, tell 
me the truth ; do not say what yo\x 
think will please me. Do you some- 
times say 3^our prayers ? 

Bridget. Prayers ! No, you taught 
me to leave them off long ago. At 
first I was sorry, but I am glad now, 
for I am sleepy in the evenings. 

Wise Man. But do you not believe 
in God? 

Bridget. Oh, a good wife only be- 
lieves what her husband tells her ! 

Wise Max. But sometimes when 
you are alone, when I am in the school 



32 THE HOUB-GLASS 

and the children asleep, do you not 
think about the saints, about the things 
you used to believe in ? What do you 
think of when you are alone ? 

Bridget [considering'^. I think about 
nothing. Sometimes I wonder if the 
pig is fattening well, or I go out to 
see if the crows are picking up the 
chickens' food. 

Wise Man. Oh, what can I do ! Is 
there nobody who believes? I must 
go and find somebody ! [He goes 
toioard the door hut stops with his eyes 
fixed on the hour-glass.~\ I cannot go 
out ; I cannot leave that ! 

Bridget. You want somebody to get 
up an argument with. 



THE HOUR-GLASS 33 

Wise Man. Oh, look out of the door 
and tell me if there is anybody there in 
the street. I cannot leave this glass ; 
somebody might shake it ! Then the 
sand would fall more quickly. 

Bridget. I don't understand what 
you are saying. \JLoohs 02it.~\ There is a 
great crowd of people talking to your 
pupils. 

Wise Man. Oh, run out, Bridget, 
and see if they have found somebody 
that believes ! 

Bridget \ivijping her amrhs in lier 
apron and pulling down her sleeves]. 
It's a hard thing to be married to a 
man of learning that must be always 
having arguments. \Goes out and shouts 



34 THE HOUR-GLASS 

through the Jcitchen door.'j Don't be 
meddling with the bread, children, 
while I'm out. 

Wise Man [kneels doivn^. '' Salvitm 
me fac, Deus — salvum — salvum. ..." I 
have forgotten it all. It is thirty years 
since I have said a prayer. I must 
pray in the common tongue, like a 
clown begging in the market, like 
Teigue the Fool ! [He ;prays.'\ Help 
me. Father, Son, and Spirit ! 

Bridget enters^ folloioed hy the Fool, 
who is holding out his hat to her. 

Fool. Give me something ; give me 
a penny to buy bacon in the shops, and 
nuts in the market, and strong drink 
for the time when the sun grows weak. 



THE HOUR-GLASS 35 

Bridget. I have no pennies. ^To 
the Wise Man.] Your pupils cannot 
find anybody to argue with you. There 
is nobody in the whole country who 
had enough belief to fill a pipe with 
since you put down the monk. Can't 
you be quiet now and not always be 
wanting to have arguments? It must 
be terrible to have a mind like that. 

Wise Man. I am lost ! I am lost ! 

Bridget. Leave me alone now ; I 
have to make the bread for you and 
the children. 

Wise Man. Out of this, woman, out 
of this, I say ! [Bridget goes through 
the hitchen door.l Will nobody find a 
way to help me ! But she spoke of 



36 THE HOUR-GLASS 

my children. I had forgotten them. 
They will believe. It is only those 
who have reason that doubt ; the 
young are full of faith. Bridget, 
Bridget, send my children to me ! 

Bridget ^msidej. Your father wants 
you ; run to him now. ^T/ie two chil- 
dren come in. They stand together a 
little way froin the threshold of the 
kitchen door^ looking timidly at their 
father.^ 

Wise Man. Children, what do you 
believe ? Is there a heaven ? Is there 
a hell ? Is there a purgatory ? 

First Child. We haven't forgotten, 
father. 

The Other Child. O no, father. 



THE HOUR-GLASS 37 

I The J/ both speak together as if in school.'^ 
There is no heaven ; there is no hell ; 
there is nothing we cannot see. 

First Child. Foolish people used to 
think that there were, but you are very 
learned and you have taught us better. 

Wise Man. You are just as bad as 
the others, just as bad as the others ! 
Out of the room with you, out of the 
room ! [The children hegiii to cry and 
run away.'j Go away, go away ! I will 
teach you better — no, I will never 
teach you again. Go to your mother — 
no, she will not be able to teach them. 
. . . Help them, God ! [Alone'] The 
grains are going very quickly. There 
is very little sand in the uppermost 



38 THE HOUR-GLASS 

glass. Somebody will come for me in 
a moment ; perhaps he is at the door 
now ! All creatures that have reason 
doubt. that the grass and the 
planets could speak ! Somebody has 
said that they would wither if they 
doubted. speak to me, grass 
blades ! fingers of God's certainty, 
speak to me. You are millions and 
you will not speak. I dare not know 
the moment the messenger will come 
for me. I will cover the glass. \JIe 
covers it and brings it to the desh, and 
the Fool is sitting hy the door fiddling 
with some flowers which he has stuch in 
his hat. lie has hegun to hlow a dande- 
lion head.~\ What are you doing? 



THE HOUR-GLASS 39 

Fool. Wait a moment. [^Re Uows.'j 
Four, five, six. 

Wise Man. What are you doing 
that for? 

Fool. I am blowing at the dande- 
lion to find out what time it is. 

Wise Man. You have heard every- 
thing ! That is why you want to find 
out what hour it is ! You are waiting 
to see them coming through the door 
to carry me away. [Fool goes on hlow- 
ing.'j Out through the door with you ! 
I will have no one here when they 
come, ^jfle seises the Fool hy the shoul- 
ders, and hegins to force him out through 
the door, then suddenly changes his mind.'j 
No, I have something to ask you. \^JIe 



40 THE HOUR-GLASS 

drags hiin hack into the room.^ Is there 
a heaven ? Is there a hell ? Is there 
a purgatory ? 

Fool. So you ask me now. I 
thought when you were asking your 
pupils, I said to myself, if he would 
ask Teigue the Fool, Teigue could tell 
him all about it, for Teigue has learned 
all about it when he has been cutting 
the nets. 

Wise Man. Tell me; tell me! 

Fool. I said, Teigue knows every- 
thing. Not even the owls and the 
hares that milk the cows have Teigue's 
wisdom. But Teigue will not speak ; 
he says nothing. 

Wise Man. Tell me, tell me ! For 



THE HOUB-GLASS 41 

under the cover the grains are falling, 
and when they are all fallen I shall die ; 
and my soul will be lost if I have not 
found somebody that believes ! Speak, 
speak ! 

Fool ^looking wisej. No, no, I 
won't tell you what is in my mind, 
and I won't tell you what is in my 
bag. You might steal away my 
thoughts. I met a bodach on the road 
yesterday, and he said, " Teigue, tell 
me how many pennies are in your 
bag. I will wager three pennies that 
there are not twenty pennies in your 
bag ; let me put in my hand and count 
them." But I pulled the strings 
tighter, like this ; and when I go to 



42 THE HOUR-GLASS 

sleep every night I hide the bag where 
no one knows. 

Wise Man [goes toward the hour- 
glass as if to uncover it~\. No, no, I 
have not the courage ! \He kneels.'] 
Have pity upon me, Fool, and tell 
me ! 

Fool. Ah ! Now, that is different. 
I am not afraid of you now. But 
I must come near you; somebody 
in there might hear what the Angel 
said. 

Wise Man. Oh, what did the Angel 
tell you? 

Fool. Once I was alone on the 
hills, and an Angel came by and he 
said, " Teigue the Fool, do not forget 



THE HOUR-GLASS 43 

the Three Fires : the Fire that punishes, 
the Fire that purifies, and the Fire 
wherein the soul rejoices for ever ! " 

Wise Man. He believes ! I am 
saved ! Help me. The sand has run 
out. I am dying. . . . [Fool helps him 
to his chair. 'j I am going from the 
country of the seven wandering stars, 
and I am going to the country of the 
fixed stars ! Ring the bell. [Fool 
rings the hell.'j Are they coming ? Ah ! 
now I hear their feet. ... I will 
speak to them. I understand it all 
now. One sinks in on God ; w^e do 
not see the truth ; God sees the truth 
in us. I cannot speak, I am too weak. 
Tell them, Fool, that when the life 



44 THE HOUR-GLASS 

and the mind are broken, the truth 
comes through them like peas through 
a broken peascod. But no, I will pray 
— yet I cannot pray. Pray, Fool, that 
they may be given a sign and save 
their souls alive. Your prayers are 
better than mine. 

Fool hows his head. Wise Man's 
head sinks on his arm on the hooks. 
Pupils enter. 

A Young Man. Look at the Fool 
turned bell-ringer ! 

Another. What have you called us 
in for, Teigue ? What are you going 
to tell us? 

Another. No wonder he has had 
dreams ! See, he is fast asleep now. 



THE HOUR-GLASS 45 

\Goes over and touches the Wise Man.] 
Oh, he is dead ! 

Fool. Do not stir ! He asked for a 
sign that you might be saved. ^All 
are silent for a 7noment.l Look what 
has come from his mouth ... a little 
winged thing ... a little shining thing. 
It has gone to the door. \^The Angel 
appears in the doorway, stretches out her 
hands aiid closes them again.'j The Angel 
has taken it in her hands ... she will 
open her hands in the Garden of Para- 
dise. [They all hieel.'j 

CUETAIN 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 



Persons 

Peter Gillane 

Michael Gillane. — His son, going to be married 

Patrick Gillane. — A lad of twelve, Michael's brother 

Bridget Gillane. — Peter's wife 

Delia Cahel. — Engaged to Michael 

The Poor Old Woman 

Neighbours 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

Scene : Interior of a cottage dose to Kil- 
lala^ in 1798. Bridget is standing at 
a table undoing a jparcel. Peter is 
sitting at one side of the fire, Patrick 
at the other. 

Peter. What is that sound I hear? 

Patrick. I don't hear anything. \IIe 
listens.'^ I hear it now. It's like cheer- 
ing. [He goes to the window and looks 
out.'\ I wonder what they are cheering 
about. I don't see anybody. 

Peter. It might be a hurling match. 

E 49 



50 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

Patkick. There's no hurling to-day. It 
must be down in the town the cheering is. 

Bridget. I suppose the boys must 
be having some sport of their own. 
Come over here, Peter, and look at 
Michael's wedding clothes. 

Peter [shifts his chair to tablej. Those 
are grand clothes, indeed. 

Bridget. You hadn't clothes like 
that when you married me, and no coat 
to put on of a Sunday more than any 
other day. 

Peter. That is true, indeed. We 
never thought a son of our own would 
be wearing a suit of that sort at his 
wedding, or have so good a place to 
bring a wife to. 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 51 

Patrick \who is still at the windowl. 
There is an old woman coming down the 
road. I don't know is it here she's coming. 

Bridget. It will be a neighbour 
coming to hear about Michael's wed- 
ding. Can you see who it is ? 

Patrick. I think it is a stranger, 
and she's not coming to the house. She 
has not turned up the path. She's 
turned into the gap that goes down 
where Maurteen and his sons are shear- 
ing sheep. ^He thorns towards them.'^ Do 
you remember what Winnie of the 
Cross Roads was saying the other night 
about the strange woman that goes 
through the country the time there's 
war or trouble coming? 



52 CATULEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

Bridget. Don't be bothering us 
about Winnie's talk but go and open 
the door for your brother. I hear him 
coming up the path. 

Peter. I hope he has brought De- 
lia's fortune with him safe, for fear 
her people might go back of the bar- 
gain, and I after making it. Trouble 
enough I had making it. [Patrick 
ope7is the door, a/nd Michael comes in.'j 

Bridget. What kept you, Michael? 
We were looking out for you this long 
time. 

Michael. I went round by the 
priest's house to bid him be ready to 
marry us to-morrow. 

Bridget. Did he say anything ? 



CATELEEN NI HOOLIHAN 53 

Michael. He said it was a very 
nice match, and that he was never 
better pleased to marry any two in his 
parish than myself and Delia Cahel. 

Peter. Have you got the fortune, 
Michael ? 

Michael. Here it is. ^He puts 
hag on the table and goes over and leans 
against chimney jamh.^ 

Bridget, who has been all this time 
examining the clothes, pulling the seams, 
and trying the lining of the pockets, etc., 
puts the clothes on the dresser. 

Peter ^getting up and taking the hag 
in his hand and turning out the 7noney'j. 
Yes, I made the bargain well for you, 
Michael. Old John Cahel would sooner 



54 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

have kept a share of this a while 
longer. " Let me keep the half of it 
till the first boy is born," says he. 
"You will not," says I. "Whether 
there is or is not a boy, the whole 
hundred pounds must be in Michael's 
hands before he brings your daughter 
to the house." The wife spoke to him 
then, and he gave in at the end. 

Bridget. You seem well pleased to 
be handling the money, Peter. 

Peter. Indeed, I wish I'd had the 
luck to get a hundred pounds, or 
twenty pounds itself, with the wife I 
married. 

Bridget. Well, if I didn't bring 
much, I didn't get much. What had 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN b^ 

you the day I married you but a flock 
of hens and you feeding them, and a 
few lambs and you driving them to 
the market at Ballina ? \She is vexed^ 
omd hangs a jug on the dresser.l If I 
brought no fortune I worked it out in 
my bones, laying down the baby — 
Michael, that is standing there now — 
on a stook of straw, while I dug the 
potatoes, and never asking big dresses 
or anything but to be working. 

Peter. That is true, indeed. [^ITe 
pats her arm.'j 

Bridget. Leave me alone now till 
I ready the house for the woman that 
is to come into it. 

Peter. You are the best woman in 



66 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

Ireland, but money is good, too. \He 
hegins handling the inoney again and sits 
down.'j I never thought to see so 
much money within my four walls. 
We can do great things now we have 
it. We can take the ten acres of land 
we have a chance of since Jamsie 
Dempsey died, and stock it. We will 
go to the fair of Ballina to buy the 
stock. Did Delia ask any of the 
money for her own use, Michael ? 

Michael. She did not, indeed. She 
did not seem to take much notice of 
it, or to look at it at all. 

Bridget. That's no wonder. Why 
would she look at it when she had 
yourself to look at — a fine strong 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 57 

young man. It is proud she must be 
to get you — a good, steady boy, that 
will make use of the money, and will 
not be running through it, or spending 
it on drink, like another. 

Peter. It's likely Michael himself 
was not thinking much of the fortune 
either, but of what sort the girl was 
to look at. 

Michael ^coming over toward the 
table']. Well, you would like a nice 
comely girl to be beside you, and to 
go walking with you. The fortune 
only lasts for a while, but the woman 
will be there always. 

Patrick ^turning round from the 
window]. They are cheering again 



58 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

down in the town. Maybe they are 
landing horses from Enniscrone. They 
do be cheering when the horses take 
the water welL 

Michael. There are no horses in it. 
Where would they be going and no 
fair at hand ? Go down to the town, 
Patrick, and see what is going on. 

Patrick \o^ens the door to go out^ 
hut stops for a onoment on the thTeshold7\. 
Will Delia remember, do you think, to 
bring the greyhound pup she promised 
me when she would be coming to the 
house ? 

Michael. She will, surely. [Patrick 
goes out, lea/ving the door open.! 

Peter. It will be Patrick's turn 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 59 

next to be looking for a fortune, but 
he won't find it so easy to get it, and 
he with no place of his own. 

Bridget. I do be thinking some- 
times, now things are going so well 
with us, and the Cahels such a good 
back to us in the district, and Delia's 
own uncle a priest, we might be put 
in the way of making Patrick himself 
a priest some day, and he so good at 
his books. 

Peter. Time enough, time enough ; 
you have always your head full of plans. 

Bridget. We will be well able to 
give him learning, and not to send 
him tramping the country like a poor 
scholar that lives on charity. 



60 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

Michael. They're not done cheering 
yet. [He goes over to the door dnd stands 
there for a tnoment^ putting ii^ his hand 
to shade his eyes.^ 

Beidget. Do you see anythmg? 

Michael. I see an old woman com- 
ing up the path. 

Bridget. Who is it, I wonder? 

Michael. I don't think it's one of 
the neighbours, but she has her cloak 
over her face. 

Bridget. Maybe it's the same 
woman Patrick saw a while ago. It 
might be some poor woman heard we 
were making ready for the wedding, 
and came to look for her share. 

Peter. I may as well put the 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 61 

money out of sight. There's no use 
leaving it out for every stranger to 
look at. \IIe goes over to a large hox 
hy the wall^ ojpens it and puts the lag in, 
and fumbles with the lock.l 

Michael. There she is, father ! [^An 
Old Woman passes the window slowly. 
She looks at Michael as she passes.l I'd 
sooner a stranger not to come to the 
house the night before the wedding. 

Bridget. Open the door, Michael ; 
don't keep the poor v^oman v^aiting. 
[^The Old Woman comes in; Michael 
stands aside to make way for herT^ 

The Poor Old Woman. God save 
all here ! 

Peter. God save you kindly. 



62 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

The Poor Old Woman. You have 
good shelter here. 

Peter. You are welcome to what- 
ever shelter we have. 

Bridget. Sit down there by the fire 
and welcome. 

The Poor Old Woman [warming her 
hands'^. There's a hard wind outside. 

Michael watches her curiously from 
the door. Peter coitnes over to the table. 

Peter. Have you travelled far to- 
day ? 

The Poor Old Woman. I have trav- 
elled far, very far ; there are few have 
travelled so far as myself. 

Peter. It is a pity, indeed, for any 
person to have no place of their own. 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 63 

The Poor Old Woman. That is true 
for you indeed, and it is long I am on 
the road since I first went wandering. 
Ijb is seldom I have any rest. 

Bridget. It is a wonder you are not 
worn out with so much wandering. 

The Poor Old Woman. Sometimes 
my feet are tired and my hands are 
quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart. 
When the people see me quiet, they think 
old age has come on me, and that all the 
stir has gone out of me. 

Bridget. What was it put you astray? 

The Poor Old Woman. Too many 
strangers in the house. 

Bridget. Indeed you look as if you 
had had your share of trouble. 



64 CATHLEEN NI BOOLIHAN 

The Poor Old Woman. I have had 
trouble indeed. 

Bridget. What was it put the 
trouble on you? 

The Poor Old Woman. My land 
that was taken from me. 

Peter. Was it much land they took 
from you ? 

The Poor Old Woman. My four 
beautiful green fields. 

Peter \aside to Bridget]. Do you 
think could she be the Widow Casey 
that was put out of her holding at 
Kilglas a while ago ? 

Bridget. She is not. I saw the 
Widow Casey one time at the market 
in Ballina, a stout, fresh woman. 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 65 

Peter \to Old Woman]. Did you 
hear a noise of cheering, and you com- 
ing up the hill ? 

The Poor Old Woman. I thought I 
heard the noise I used to hear when my 
friends came to visit me. \She begins 
singing half to herself^ 

I will go cry with the woman, 
For yellow-haired Donough is dead ; 
With a henipen rope for a neckcloth 
And a white cloth on his head. 

Michael ^coming from the door^. 
What is that you are singing, ma'am ? 

The Poor Old Woman. Singing I 
am about a man I knew one time, yel- 
low-haired Donough, that was hanged 



66 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

in Galway. \She goes on singing rnuch 
louder^ 

I am come to cry with you, woman, 
My hair is unwound and unbound; 
I remember him ploughing his field. 
Turning up the red side of the ground. 

And building his barn on the hill 
With the good mortared stone ; 
! we'd have pulled down the gallows 
Had it happened in Enniscrone ! 

Michael. What was it brought him 
to his death ? 

The Poor Old Woman. He died for 
love of me ; many a man has died for 
love of me. 

Peter ^aside to Bridget]. Her trou- 
ble has put her wits astray. 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 67 

Michael. Is it long since that song 
was made ? Is it long since he got his 
death ? 

The Poor Old Woman. Not long, 
not long. But there were others that 
died for love of me a long time ago. 

Michael. Were they neighbours of 
your own, ma'am ? 

The Poor Old Woman. Come here 
beside me and I'll tell you about them. 
[Michael sits down heside her at the 
hearth.'^ There was a red man of the 
O'Donells from the North, and a man 
of the O'Sullivans from the South, and 
there was one Brian that lost his life 
at Glontarf, by the sea, and there were 
a great many in the West, some that 



68 CATHLEEN Nl EOOLIHAN 

died hundreds of years ago, and there 
are some that will die to-morrow. 

Michael. Is it in the West that men 
will die to-morrow ? 

The Poor Old Woman. Come nearer, 
nearer to me. 

Bridget. Is she right, do you think ? 
or is she a woman from the North ? 

Peter. She doesn't know well what 
she's talking about, with the want and 
the trouble she has gone through. 

Bridget. The poor thing, we should 
treat her well. 

Peter. Give her a drink of milk and 
a bit of the oaten cake. 

Bridget. Maybe we should give her 
something along with that to bring her 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 69 

on her way — a few pence, or a shilling 
itself, and we with so much money in 
the house. 

Peter. Indeed, I'd not begrudge it 
to her if we had it to spare ; but if we 
go running through what we have, w^e'll 
soon have to break the hundred pounds, 
and that would be a pity. 

Bridget. Shame on you, Peter. Give 
her the shilling and your blessing with 
it, or our own luck will go from us. 

Peter goes to the hox cmd takes out a 
shilling. 

Bridget [to the Old Woman]. Will 
you have a drink of milk? 

The Poor Old Woman. It is not 
food or drink that I want. 



70 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

Peter \0ffe7nng the shilling'^. Here is 
something for you. 

The Poor Old Woman. That is 
not what I want. It is not silver I 
want. 

Peter. What is it you would be 
asking for ? 

The Poor Old Woman. If anyone 
would give me help he must give me 
himself, he must give me all. [Peter 
goes over to the table, staring at the shil- 
ling in his hand in a hewildered way and 
stands whisj>ering to Bridget.] 

Michael. Have you no man of your 
own, ma'am ? 

The Poor Old Woman. I have not. 
With all the lovers that brought me 



CATULEEN NI HOOLIHAN 71 

their love, I never set out the bed for 
any. 

Michael. Are you lonely going the 
roads, ma'am ? 

The Poor Old Woman. I have my 
thoughts and I have my hopes. 

Michael. What hopes have you to 
hold to? 

The Poor Old Woman. The hope 
of getting my beautiful fields back 
again ; the hope of putting the stran- 
gers out of my house. 

Michael. What way will you do 
that, ma'am ? 

The Poor Old Woman. I have 
good friends that will help me. They 
are gathering to help me now. I am 



72 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

J' 

not afraid. If they are put down to- 
day, they will get the upper hand to- 
. morrow. ^BTie gets up.'j I must be 
going to meet my friends. They are 
coming to help me, and I must be there 
to welcome them. I must call the 
neighbours together to welcome them. 

Michael. I will go with you. 

Bridget. It is not her friends you 
have to go and welcome, Michael ; it is 
the girl coming into the house you 
have to welcome. You have plenty to 
do ; it is food and drink you have to 
bring to the house. The woman that 
is coming is not coming with empty 
hands ; you would not have an empty 
house before her. \^To the Old 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIRAN 73 

Woman] Maybe you don't know, 
ma'am, that my son is going to be 
married to-morrow. 

The Poor Old Woman. It is not 
a man going to his marriage that I 
look to for help. 

Peter \to Bridget]. Who is she, do 
you think, at all ? 

Bridget. You did not tell us your 
name yet, ma'am. 

The Poor Old Woman. Some call 
me the Poor Old Woman, and there 
are some that call me Cathleen the 
daughter of Hoolihan. 

Peter. I think I knew some one of 
that name once. Who was it, I w^on- 
der? It must have been some one I 



74 CATRLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

knew when I was a boy. No, no, I 
remember I heard it in a song. 

The Poor Old Woman ^who is stand- 
ing in the doorwayl^. They are wonder- 
ing that there were songs made for 
me ; there have been many songs made 
for me. I heard one on the wind this 
morning. [She sings'^ 

Do not make a great keening 
When the graves have been dug to-morrow. 
Do not call the white-scarfed riders 
To the burying that shall be to-morrow. 
Do not spread food to call strangers 
To the wakes that shall be to-morrow. 
Do not give money for prayers 
For the dead that shall die to-morrow. 
They will have no need of prayers, they will 
have no need of prayers. 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 75 

Michael. I do not know what that 
song means ; but tell me something I 
can do for you. 

Petee. Come over to me, Michael. 

Michael. Hush, father ; listen to 
her. 

The Poor Old Woman. It is a 
hard service they take that help me. 
Many that are red-cheeked now will be 
pale-cheeked ; many that have been free 
to walk the hills and the bogs and 
the rushes will be sent to walk hard 
streets in far countries ; many a good 
plan will be broken ; many that have 
gathered money w^ill not stay to spend 
it ; many a child will be born and 
there will be no father at its christen- 



76 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

ing to give it a name. They that had 
red cheeks will have pale cheeks for 
my sake ; and for all that they will 
think they are well paid. \She goes out. 
Her voice is heard outside singing\ 

They shall be remembered for ever 
They shall be alive for ever 
They shall be speaking for ever 
The people shall hear them for ever. 

Bridget \to Peter]. Look at him, 
Peter ; he has the look of a man that 
has got the touch. ^Baisi7ig her voice'j 
Look here, Michael, at the wedding 
clothes ^taking clothes from dresser']. You 
have a right to fit them on now. It 
would be a pity to-morrow if they did 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 77 

not fit ; the boys would be laughing at 
you. Take them, Michael, and go into 
the room and fit them on. ^She ;puts 
them on his arm.'j 

Michael. What wedding are you 
talking of ? What clothes will I be 
wearing to-morrow ? 

Bridget. These are the clothes you 
are going to wear when you marry 
Delia Cahel to-morrow. 

Michael. I had forgotten that. [^Re 
looks at the clothes a/?id turns toward the 
inner room^ hiot stops at the sound of 
cheering outside.'^ 

Peter. There is the shouting come 
to our own door. What is it has 
happened ? 



78 CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 

WeigKbours come crowding in, Patrick 
and Delia with them. 

Patrick. There are ships in the 
bay ; the French are landing at 
Killala. 

Peter taJces his pipe from his mouth 
and his hat off and stands up. The 
clothes slip from Michael's arm. 

Delia. Michael ! ^He taJce^ no no- 
tice.'^ Michael ! \IIe turns towards her.~^ 
Why do you look at me like a stran- 
ger ? ^She drops his arm. Bridget 
goes over toward her.~^ 

Patrick. The boys are all hurrying 
down the hillsides to meet the French. 

Delia. Michael won't be going to 
join the French. 



CATHLEEN NI HOOLIHAN 79 

Bridget ^o Peter]. Tell him not 
to go, Peter. 

Peter. It's no use. He doesn't 
hear a word we're saying. 

Bridget. Try, Delia, and coax him 
over to the fire. 

Delia. Michael, Michael, you won't 
leave me ! You won't join the French 
and we going to be married to-mor- 
row ! \She puts her arms ahout him. 
He turns to her as if about to yield.'] 

Old Woman's voice outside — 

They shall be remembered for ever 
The people shall hear them for ever. 

Michael breaks away from Delia 
and goes out. 



80 CATHLEEN NI EOOLIHAN 

Bridget flaying her hand 07i Patrick's 
arTThj. Did you see an old woman 
going down the path ? 

Patrick. I did not, but I saw a 
young girl and she had the walk of a 
queen. 



A POT OF BKOTH 



Persons 

A Beggarman 
John Coneely 
SiBBY Coneely 



A POT OP BKOTH 

Scene : A cottage hitchen. Fire on the 
hearth. Table with cabbage^ a jplate of 
meal^ etc. Half -open door. 

Beggar ^nters^ looks about']. What 
sort are the people of this house, 
I wonder ? Was it a good place 
for me to come to look for my din- 
ner, I wonder ? What's in that big 
pot ? [Lifts cover.'] Nothing at all ! 
What's in the little pot ? [Lifts cover.] 
Nothing at all ! What's in that bottle, 
I wonder ? [Takes it up excitedly and 



84 A POT OF BROTH 

smells.!^ Milk ! milk in a bottle ! I 
wonder they wouldn't afford a tin can 
to milk the cow into ! What's in 
that chest ? ^Kneels and tries to lift 
eover.'j Locked ! ^Smells at the hey-Kole^ 
There's a good smell there — there 
must be a still not far off. \Jjrets up 
and sits on chest.l 

A noise heard outside, shouts, footsteps, 
and a loud frightened cachling. 

Beggar. What in the earthly world 
is going on outside ? Anyone would 
think it was the Fiannta Eireann at 
their hunting ! 

Sibby's Voice. Stop the gap, let 
you stop the gap, John ! Stop that 
old schemer of a hen flying up on 



A POT OF BBOTH 85 

the thatch like as if she was an 
eagle ! 

John's Voice. What can I do, 
Sibby ? I all to had my hand on her 
when she flew away ! 

Sibby's Voice. Slie's out into the 
garden ! Follow after her ! She has 
the wide world before her now ! 

Beggar. "Sibby," he called her. I 
wonder is it Sibby Coneely's house I 
am in ! If that's so, it's a bad chance 
I have of going out heavier than I 
came in ! I often heard of her, a 
regular old slave-driver that would 
starve the rats ! An old niggard with 
her eyes on kippeens, that would skin 
a flea for its hide ! It was the bad 



86 A POT OF BROTH 

luck of the world brought me here, 
and not a house or a village between 
this and Tubber. And it isn't much I 
have left to bring me on there. [Be- 
gins emptying out his pockets on the 
chest.'j There's my pipe, and not a 
grain to fill it with ! There's my 
handkerchief that I got at the Corona- 
tion dinner. There's my knife, and 
nothing left of it but the handle. 
[Shakes the pocket out.'j And there's the 
crumb of the last dinner I got, and 
the last I'm likely to get till to- 
morrow. That's all I have in the 
world, unless the stone I picked up to 
peg at that yelping dog a while ago. 
[Takes stone out of other pocket and 



A POT OF BROTH 87 

it up and down.'^ In the time 
long ago I usen't to have much trouble 
to get a dinner, getting over the old 
women and getting round the young 
ones ! I remember the time I met the 
old minister on the path and sold him 
his own flock of turkeys. My wits 
used to fill my stomach then, but I'm 
afraid they're going from me now with 
all the hardship I went through. 

CacJcUng heard again, and cries. 

Sibby's Voice. Catch her, she's 
round the bush ! Put your hand in 
the nettles, don't be daunted ! S^A 
choked cachle and prolonged screech.']^ 

Beggar. There's a dinner for some- 
body, anyway ! That it may be for 



88 A POT OF BROTH 

myself ! How will I come round her, 
I wonder? There is no more pity in 
her heart than there's a soul in a dog. 
If all the saints were standing there 
barefoot, she'd bid them to call another 
day. It's myself I have to trust now, 
and my share of talk. [^Looks at the 
stone.~\ I know what I'll do; I know 
what a friend of mine did one time 
with a stone, and I'm as good a man 
as he is, anyway. \_Re jumps up and 
waves the stone over his head.J^ Now, 
Sibby ! If I don't do it one way, I'll 
do it another. My wits against the 
world ! [Sings'J 

There's broth in the pot for you, old man, 
There's broth in the pot for you, old man, 



A POT OF BBOTH 89 

There's cabbage for me 

And broth for you, 

And beef for Jack the journeyman. 

I wish you were dead, my gay old man, 

I wish you were dead, my gay old man, 

I wish you were dead, 

And a stone at your head, 

And I'd marry poor Jack the journeyman. 

Voices outside. 

John's Voice. Bring it in, bring it 
in, Sibby. You'll be late with the 
priest's dinner. 

Sibby's Voice. Can't you wait a 
minute till I draw it ? [^Enter John.] 

John. I didn't know there was any- 
one in the house. 

Beggar. It's only this minute I 



90 A POT OF BROTH 

came in ; tired with the length of the 
road I am, and fasting since morning. 

John ^begins groping among the pots 
and pa7is'j. I'll see can I find any- 
thing here for you. ... I don't see 
much. . . . Maybe there's something 
in the chest. 

He taJces hey from a hiding-place 
at the hack of the hearth^ opens chesty 
takes out bottle, takes out ham bone and 
is cutting a bit from it when Sibby 
enters, carrying hen by the neck. 

Sibby. Hurry, now, John, after all 
the time you have wasted. Why 
didn't you steal up on the old hen 
that time she was scratching in the 
dust ? 



A POT OF BROTH 91 

John. Sure, I thought one of the 
chickens would be the tenderest. 

SiBBY. Cock you up with tender- 
ness, indeed ! All the expense I'm put 
to ! My grand hen I have been feeding 
these five years ! Wouldn't that have 
been enough to part with ? Indeed, I 
wouldn't have thought of parting with 
her at all, but she had got tired of 
laying since Easter. 

At sound of her voice John has 
d7'opped ham lone on a bench. 

John. Well, I thought we ought to 
give his reverence something that would 
have a little good in it. 

SiBBY. What does the age of it 
matter? A hen's a hen when it's on 



92 A POT OF BROTH 

the table. ^Sitting down to pluck 
chicken.'j Why couldn't the Kernans 
have given the priest his dinner, the 
way they always do ? What did it 
matter their mother's brother to have 
died ? It is an excuse they had made 
up to put the expense of the dinner 
on me. 

John. Well, I hope you have a good 
bit of bacon to put in the pot along 
with the chicken. 

SiBBY. Let me alone, the taste of 
meat on the knife is all that high-up 
people like the clergy care for, nice gen- 
teel people, no way greedy, like potato 
diggers or harvest men. 

John. Well, I never saw the man 



A POT OF BROTH 93 

gentle or simple wouldn't be glad of 
his fill of bacon and he hungry. 

SiBBY. Let me alone, I'll show the 
Kernans what I can do. I have what's 
better than bacon, a nice bit of a ham 
I am keeping in the chest this good 
while, thinking we might want it for 
company. ^She catches sight of Beggar 
and calls out~\ Who is there ? A beggar- 
man, is it ? Then you may quit this 
house, if you please ; we have noth- 
ing for you. ^She gets ujp and ojpens 
door.'\ 

Beggar \Gomes forward^. It is a mis- 
take you are making, ma'am; it is not 
asking anything I am. It is giving 
I am more used to. I was never in a 



94 A POT OF BROTH 

house yet but there would be a wel- 
come for me in it again. 

SiBBY. Well, you have the appear- 
ance of a beggar, and if it isn't beg- 
ging you are, what way do you make 
your living? 

Beggar. If I was a beggar, ma'am, 
it is to common people I would be 
going and not to a nice grand woman 
like yourself, that is only used to be 
talking with high-up noble people. 

SiBBY. Well, what is it you are 
asking ? If it's a bit to eat you want, 
I can't give it to you, for I have com- 
pany coming that will clear all before 
them. 

Beggar. Is it me to ask anything 



A POT OF BROTH 95 

to eat ? \IIolds up stoneT^ I have here 
what's better than beef and mutton 
and currant cakes and sacks of flour. 

SiBBY. What is it all? 

Beggar ^mysteriously^. Those that 
gave it to me wouldn't like me to tell 
that. 

SiBBY \to John.] Do you think is 
he a man that has friends among the 
Sidhe ? 

John. Your mind is always running 
on the Sidhe since the time they made 
John Molloy find buried gold on the 
bridge of Limerick. I see nothing in 
it but a stone. 

Beggar. What can you see in it, 
you that never saw what it can do ? 



96 A POT OF BROTH 

John. What is it it can do ? 

Beggar. It can do many things, 
and what it's going to do now is to 
make me a drop of broth for my 
dinner. 

SiBBY. I'd like to have a stone that 
could make broth. 

Beggar. No one in the world but 
myself has one, ma'am, and no other 
stone in the world has the same power, 
for it has enchantment on it. All I'll 
ask of you now, ma'am, is the loan of 
a pot with a drop of boiling water in 
it. 

SiBBY. You're welcome to that 
much. John, fill the small pot with 
water. [John Jills the pot.'] And I'll 



A POT OF BBOTH 97 

bring out the hen and draw it. [She 
goes oict.'j 

Beggar [puttmg in stone]. There 
now, that's all I have to do but to 
put it on the fire to boil, and it's a 
grand pot of broth will be before me 
then. 

SiBBY. And is that all you have to 
put in it? 

Beggae. Nothing at all but that, — 
only maybe a bit of herb, for fear the 
enchantment might slip away from it. 
You wouldn't have a bit of the Slan- 
lus in the house, ma'am, that was cut 
with a black-handled knife? 

SiBBY. No, indeed, I have none of 
that in the house. 



98 A POT OF BROTH 

Beggar. Or a bit of the Faravan 
that was picked when the wind was 
from the north ? 

SiBBY. No, indeed, I'm sorry there's 
none. 

Beggar. Or a sprig of the Ahartalav, 
the father of herbs ? 

John. There's plenty of it by the 
hedge. I'll go out and get it for 
you. 

Beggar. Oh, don't mind taking so 
much trouble ; those leaves beside me 
will do well enough. VHe takes a couple 
of good handfuls of the cabbage amd 
onions amd puts them in.~^ 

SiBBY. But where did you get the 
stone, at all ? 



A POT OF BROTH 99 

Beggar. Well, this is how it hap- 
pened. I was out one time, and a 
grand greyhound with me, and it fol- 
lowed a hare, and I went after it. 
And I came up at last to the edge of 
a gravel pit where there were a few 
withered furze bushes, and there was 
my fine hound sitting up, and it shiv- 
ering, and a little old man sitting be- 
fore him, and he taking off a hare-skin 
coat. \Loolcing round at the ham honel^ 
Give me the loan of a kippeen to stir 
the pot with. . . . [^He takes the 
ham hone and puts it into the pot.^ 

John. Oh ! The ham bone ! 

Beggar. I didn't say a ham bone, 
I said a hare-skin coat. 



100 A POT OF BBOTH 

SiBBY. Hold your tongue, John, if 
it's deaf you're getting. 

Beggar [stirring the pot with the sa/ine 
ham l)one\. Well, as I was telling you, 
he was sitting up, and one time I 
thought he was as small as a nut, and 
the next minute I thought his head to 
be in the stars. Frightened I was. 

SiBBY. No wonder, no wonder at all 
in that. 

Beggar. He took the little stone 
then — that stone I have with me — 
out of the side pocket of his coat, and 
he showed it to me. " Call off your 
dog," says he, "and I'll give you that 
stone, and if ever you want a good 
drop of broth, or a bit of stirabout, or 



A POT OF BBOTR 101 

a drop of poteen itself, all you have to 
do is to put it down in a pot with a 
drop of water and stir it a while, and 
you'll have the thing you were want- 
ing ready before you." 

SiBBY. Poteen ! Would it make that ? 

Beggae. It would, ma'am ; and 
wine, the same as the Clare Militia 
uses. 

SiBBY. Let me see what does it 
look like now. [Is lending forward.~\ 

Beggar. Don't look at it for your 
life, ma'am. It might bring bad luck 
on anyone that might look at it, and 
it boiling. I must put a cover on the 
pot, or I must colour the water some 
way. Give me a handful of that meal. 



102 A POT OF BROTH 

[SiBBY holds out a jplate of meal and he 
jputs in a handful or two.l 

John. Well, he's a gifted man ! 

SiBBY. It would be a great comfort to 
have a stone like that. [She has finished 
jplucking the hen which lies in her lap.l 

Beggar. And there's another thing 
it does, ma'am, since it came into 
Catholic hands. If you put it into a 
pot of a Friday with a bit of the whit- 
est meat in Ireland in it, it would turn 
it as black as black. 

SiBBY. That is no less than a mira- 
cle ; I must tell Father Jones about that. 

Beggar. But to put a bit of meat 
with it any other day of the week, it 
would do it no harm at all, but good. 



A POT OF BROTH 103 

Look here, now, ma'am, I'll put that 
nice little chicken you have in your 
lap in the pot for a minute till you 
see. [Takes it and puts it in.'] 

John [sarcastically'j. It's a good job 
this is not a Friday ! 

SiBBY. Keep yourself quiet, John, 
and don't be interrupting the talk, or 
you'll get a knock on the head like the 
King of Lochlann's grandmother. 

John. Go on, go on, I'll say no more. 

Beggar. If I'm passing this way 
some time of a Friday, I'll bring a 
nice bit of mutton, or the breast of a 
turkey, and you '11 see how it will 
be no better in two minutes than a 
fistful of bog mould. 



104 A POT OF BROTH 

SiBBY ^getting up^ Let me take the 
chicken out now. 

Beggar. Stop till I help you, 
ma'am ; you might scald your hand. 
I'll show it to you in a minute as 
white as your own skin, where the lily 
and the rose are fighting for mastery. 
Did you ever hear what the boys in 
your own parish were singing after 
you being married from them ? — such 
of them that had any voice at all and 
not choked with crying, or senseless 
with the drop of drink they took to 
comfort them and to keep their wits 
from going with the loss of you. 

rSiBBY sits dovjn again complacently.']^ 

SiBBY. Did they do that, indeed ? 



A POT OF BROTH 105 

Beggar. They did, ma'am. This is 
what the}' used to be singing. [*S"/;j(7^] 

The spouse of Naoise, Erin's woe, 
Helen and Venus Umg ago, 
Their charms would fade, their fame would flee, 
Beside mo gradh, mo stor. mo chree, 
My Sihhy 0! 

SiBBY tah\^ a fori' and ristp^ to take 
out the' hen. Beggar put^s vp hu hand 
to stop her and got^ on. 

Her eyes are gray like morning dew, 

Her curling hair falls to her shoe. 

The swan is blacker than [Jooks round for a 

simile, then at his hand] my nail, 
Beside my queon. my Granuaile, 
]\Iv Sibbv 0! 



106 A POT OF BROTH 

[SiBBY half rises again. Beggarman 
puts up his hand.'j Wait till you hear 
to the end. [Sings'] 

The King of France would give his throne 
To share her pillow [^ivJiafs the rhyme at aW], 
So would I myself. . . . 

SiBBY begins to keep time with fork. 

The Spanish fleet is on the sea 
To carry away mo gradh, mo chree! 
My Sibby 0! 

SiBBY [sta7ids up with the fork in her 
ham^d am^d sings to herself 'j. " The Spanish 
fleet is on the sea," etc. \To John] I 
always knew I was too good for you ! 
\She goes on humming. ~] 



A POT OF BROTH 107 

John. Well, he has the old woman 
bewitched ! 

SiBBY ]^uddenly coming to her %oits\. 
Did you take the chicken out yet ? 

Beggar faking it out and giving it a 
good squeeze into the pot]. I did, ma'am ; 
look at it there. [She takes it a/nd lays 
it on table.'] 

John. How is the broth getting on ? 

Beggar pasting it with a spoon'j. It's 
grand ; it's always grand. 

SiBBY. Give me a taste of it. 

Beggar [takes the pot off and slips the 
ham hone hehind him^. Give me some 
vessel till I give this shy woman a 
taste of it. 

John gives him an egg cup., which he 



108 A POT OF BROTH 

Jills and gives to Sibby. John gives Kim 
a r)iug, and he fills this for himself pour- 
ing it hach and forward from it to a 
howl that is on the table^ and drinking 
gulps now and again. Sibby hlows at 
hers and smells it. 

Sibby. There's a good smell on it, 
anyway. \Tasting'] It's lovely. Oh, 
I'd give the world and all to have the 
stone that made that ! 

Beggar. The riches of the world 
wouldn't buy it, ma'am. If I was in- 
clined to sell it, the Lord Lieutenant 
would have given me Dublin Castle 
and all that's in it long ago. 

Sibby. Oh ! couldn't we coax it out 
of you any way at all ? 



A POT OF BROTH 109 

Beggar ^drmH7ig more soup^ The 
whole world wouldn't coax me out of 
it, except maybe for one thing. [^LooJcs 
depressed.'^ Now I think of it, there's 
only one reason I might think of part- 
ing with it at all. 

SiBBY [eagerli/'j. What reason is 
that? 
A Beggar. It's a misfortune that over- 
takes me, ma'am, every time I make 
an attempt to keep a pot of my own 
to boil it in, and I don't like to be 
always under a compliment to the 
neighbours asking the loan of one. But 
whatever way it is, I never can keep 
a pot with me. I had a right to ask 
one of the little man that gave me the 



110 A POT OF BROTH 

stone. The last one I bought got the 
bottom burned out of it one night I 
was giving a hand to a friend that 
keeps a still ; and the one before that I 
hid under a bush one time I was going 
into Ennis for the night, and some 
boys of the town dreamed about it 
and went looking for treasure in it, and 
they found nothing but eggshells, but 
they brought it away for all that, and 
another one. 

SiBBY. Give me the loan of the 
stone itself and I'll engage I'll keep a 
pot for it. . . . Wait now till I make 
some offer to you. 

Beggar [aside]. I'd best not be 
stopping to bargain ; the priest might 



A POT OF BBOTH 111 

be coming on me. . . . \Gets up.'J 
Well, ma'am, I'm sorry I can't oblige 
you. \^Goes to door, shades Ms eyes and 
looks out, turns suddenly.'} I have no 
time to lose, ma'am ; I'm off. [^Coines 
to table and takes up his hat.l^ Well, 
ma'am, what offer will you make ? 

John. You might as well leave it 
for a day on trial, first. 

Beggar \to John]. I think it likely 
I'll not be passing this way again. 
\To Sibby] Well, now, ma'am, as you 
were so kind as for the sake of the 
good treatment you gave me I'll ask 
nothing for it at all. Here it is for 
you and welcome, that you may live 
long to use it! But I'll just take a 



112 A POT OF BROTH 

little bit in my bag that'll do for sup- 
per to-night, for fear I mightn't be in 
Tubber before night. [^TaJces up the 
chicken.'] And you won't begrudge me 
the drop of whiskey when you can 
make plenty for yourself from this out. 
\^Takes the 'bottle.'] 

John. You deserve it, you deserve 
it, indeed. You are a very gifted man. 
Don't forget the kippeen ! [Beggarman 
takes the hami 'bone also and exit. John 
follows him.] 

SiBBY [looking at the stone in her 
ha/n.d']. Broth of the best — stirabout 
— poteen — wine itself, he said ! And 
the people that will be coming to see 
the miracle ! I'll be as rich as Biddy 



A POT OF BROTH 113 

Early before I die ! [John enter s.~\ 
Where were you, John ? 

John. I just went out to shake him 
by the hand. He's a very gifted man. 

SiBBY. He is so, indeed. 

John. And the priest's at the top 
of the boreen coming for his dinner. 
Maybe you'd best put the stone in the 
pot again. 

CUKTAIN 



ESSAYS, ETC 

BY William Butler Yeats 



" Leader of one of the most notable contemporary movements — the 
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WHERE THERE IS NOTHING 

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